"My patience!" murmured Mrs. Dodge, slapping her dough smartly.
"Fanny ought to be ready by now. They'll be late--both of 'em."

She hurriedly crossed the kitchen to where, through a partly open
door, an uncarpeted stair could be seen winding upward.

"Fanny!" she called sharply. "Fanny! ain't you ready yet?"

A quick step in the passage above, a subdued whistle, and her son Jim
came clattering down the stair. He glanced at his mother, a slight
pucker between his handsome brows. She returned the look with one of
fond maternal admiration.

"How nice you do look, Jim," said she, and smiled up at her tall son.
"I always did like you in red, and that necktie--"

Jim Dodge shrugged his shoulders with a laugh.

"Don't know about that tie," he said. "Kind of crude and flashy,
ain't it, mother?"

"Flashy? No, of course it ain't. It looks real stylish with the brown
suit."

"Stylish," repeated the young man. "Yes, I'm a regular
swell--everything up to date, latest Broadway cut."

He looked down with some bitterness at his stalwart young person clad
in clothes somewhat shabby, despite a recent pressing.